


yer friends with what?!

by foxkillskat



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Kissing, M/M, No Sex, Post-Time Skip, SakuAtsu, friends with (cuddle) benefits, little spoon omi, no beta we die like daichi, nothing graphic, sakuatsu best friends agenda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:40:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29220378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxkillskat/pseuds/foxkillskat
Summary: Miya Atsumu and Sakusa Kiyoomi are more than friends — they’re friends with benefits.Benefits that give Kiyoomi a headache.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 34
Kudos: 264
Collections: Sakuatsu Fic Rec List, Team MSBY Black Jackal Haikyuu





	yer friends with what?!

**Author's Note:**

> hey yall, yer (least) fave redneck, foxkillskat, back again!! ya just cant get rid of me, huh? im varmint fer a reason, i suppose 
> 
> today, i humbly offer up some more sakuatsu best friends agenda — friends with (cuddle) benefits ☺️ the world needs more little spoon omi, thats all im sayin
> 
> enjoy the mess!!!

The locker room is quiet for once. Peaceful. Of course, that doesn’t stop Atsumu from being his usual loud self and ruining it all.

“Nuh-uh, we are more than friends!” he insists, adamant Kiyoomi is in the wrong for refusing to invite him to the latest family torture in the form of his older brother’s engagement dinner.

“Yes, I know what a best friend is, but you’re still not going.” Kiyoomi tugs his shirt over his head, taking care not to dampen the collar on his wet curls. “Hurry up, I’m tired.”

“That’s not what I’m talkin’ ‘bout and you know it. We’re way more than friends.” Atsumu crosses his arms and stomps his foot right as Meian walks in. “We’re friends with benefits.”

Meian stops in his tracks. The locker room is quiet once more, but far from peaceful.

Before Kiyoomi has time to process, Meian raises his brows at the both of them, nearly as high as his hairline. Then he turns sharply on his heel back the way he came.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he throws over his shoulder before disappearing.

“No, wait—” Kiyoomi calls after him to no avail.

“Did ya see his face?” Atsumu doubles over, laughing. “Oh my god.” 

“You idiot!” Kiyoomi shoves him into the lockers. “You can’t just say something like that.”

“Like what? The truth?” Atsumu is absolutely giddy, unphased by his brush with the metal. 

Kiyoomi considers delivering a good whack to his head, too — might knock some sense into him. Of course, even that wouldn’t stop Atsumu. When he starts something, he always finishes it.

“Yer my friend and we got benefits,” he continues on. “Accept it!”

The sound of Hinata’s hand slapping over his mouth as he turns the corner overpowers Atsumu’s pointless shouting.

“I knew it!” he squeaks. “I knew you guys were FWBs.” He pronounces each letter in the cursed acronym long and slow, shoving them down Kiyoomi’s throat one after the other.

Atsumu tops it off with a wink and Kiyoomi chokes. He’s busy coughing it out with his face buried in his elbow as Bokuto saunters in and throws an arm across Hinata’s shoulders. They’re both soaked in sweat from the extra hour of practice —if playing an impromptu game of dodgeball could be considered practice— and their smell alone is enough to worsen the lump in Kiyoomi’s throat.

“F-W-Bees?” Bokuto asks, one eyebrow high. “Are you guys starting a beekeeping club? I wanna join! ‘Kaashi once told me that bees—”

Kiyoomi doesn’t catch the rest of Bokuto’s ramble over Atsumu’s hand pounding on the space between his shoulder blades, hard. And when his eyes return from the back of his head, Hinata is standing on tip toes to whisper in Bokuto’s ear.

“Don’t quit on me now.” Atsumu smirks like he wasn’t the one who started all this.

At least he put an end to Kiyoomi’s coughing. He straightens up and clears his throat in perfect time to catch Bokuto’s excited squawk.

“Oh ho! Wait, but what—” Bokuto is cut off by more of Hinata’s whispering until they both break out into what could only be called giggling. Quite a feat for grown men — if they could be considered that.

Without shame, Atsumu joins them in their reverie. Kiyoomi prefers misery. He ducks his head into his locker and considers slamming the door on himself a few times for good measure. Anything would be better than this.

“Wait a second,” Bokuto accosts them, serious. “Why don’t you guys just date?”

“What?” They both jump in unison and Kiyoomi whacks his head on the locker’s ceiling.

World spinning, he falls onto the bench. “We’re not—” He loses his words as he finds the bump on his head, larger than expected. “Ow.”

“Lemme see.” Atsumu pushes his hand out of the way and digs fingers into Kiyoomi’s curls, parting his damp hair in search of the wound. “Ooh, that’s a big one. Ya gotta stop bein’ so clumsy, Omi-kun.”

“What?” Hinata imitates them as he slides his hand into Bokuto’s sweat-matted hair with all the dramatics and flair of a Broadway actor. His little comedy show sends both of them into another round of giggles.

“Shut yer mouths,” Atsumu reprimands, hand still resting atop Kiyoomi’s head, fingers circling gently over the sore spot. “No one gets to make fun of Omi-kun but me.”

Kiyoomi would face palm if his head didn’t hurt so much. “Good god,” he mutters to himself instead, “fuck me.”

“Is that one of your many benefits?” Bokuto jokes, wagging his brows. 

His laugh grows round and full-bellied, accented by Hinata’s continued chortle. They’re jovial, not a hint of mean to be found in either of them, but they echo off the walls of Kiyoomi’s skull the same, bouncing between brain and bone, boisterous.

This is how his headache begins.

——

“I’m still mad at you.” Kiyoomi repeats for the hundredth time on their way to his apartment, head pounding.

“What? It’s not like I lied or nothin’.” Atsumu throws his hands up in the air. “We are friends with benefits.”

“You know what you implied.” Kiyoomi’s feet slap the ground as they walk. “Now the whole team thinks I’m sleeping with _you_.”

Atsumu’s quiet for a moment far too brief. “And what’s so terrible ‘bout that? Plenty of people wanna sleep with me.”

“Good god, you’re full of yourself.” Kiyoomi huffs. “Exhibit A.” 

“Yer bein’ real mean to me, Omi-kun.” Atsumu pouts.

“Yeah, well you deserve it for embarrassing me,” Kiyoomi snaps. “No more benefits for you.”

Atsumu’s bottom lip sticks out farther and farther. “Ya say that now—”

“None.” Kiyoomi glares.

Despite his headache, he manages to hold the look the rest of the way home, up the stairs, and into his apartment. All the while Atsumu trails behind like a sad puppy. Arms crossed and eyes pleading, he follows Kiyoomi to the kitchen sink and pouts the entire time it takes for the tap to run hot.

“Stop that.” Kiyoomi motions for Atsumu to join.

The usual lazy smile returns the moment Kiyoomi squirts two pumps of soap into his hands — he always gives Atsumu a little extra. They take turns with the water as they lather up for the requisite amount of time, but when Kiyoomi goes to rinse, Atsumu doesn’t wait for him to finish. He sticks his hands under the flow the same as Kiyoomi’s, bubbles on their fingers brushing.

The touch is delicate enough to seem unintentional. A mistake. But nothing with Atsumu is an accident. Not this and certainly not the first time they ended up cuddling.

Like all bad decisions, it started late one night after they stumbled back to Kiyoomi’s place, dead tired from a long day of conditioning and an even longer wait for their food at dinner. They’d barely made it from the restaurant through the frigid winter air to collapse on Kiyoomi’s couch, shivering. The heat took so long to kick in, they started fighting over the tiny throw blanket — the only one Kiyoomi owned apparently. Push turned to pull and in the glow of an old movie playing out on the TV, Atsumu ended up in Kiyoomi’s lap.

Muscles sore and bodies warm, they didn’t speak a word. They moved closer and closer under the cover of the small blanket until Kiyoomi was watching the screen through tufts of blond hair, an arm thrown across the perfect dip in Atsumu’s lithe waist. They were touching everywhere from shoulders to toes, but surprisingly, Kiyoomi felt nothing but comfort.

Without meaning to, it became routine. From the couch to Kiyoomi’s bed, they found themselves wrapped up in each other time and time again. Cuddling quickly became a habit. And, like Atsumu, Kiyoomi was never one to quit.

“Omi-Omi, what if I let ya be little spoon?” Atsumu suggests, patting his hands dry. “Then can I have benefits?”

Kiyoomi hates how tempted he is, how Atsumu’s childish plea makes him want to pinch his cheeks and shake him by the shoulders. Affectionately, of course.

“No.” He really hates how disappointed his own word leaves him.

“C’mon, please?” Atsumu whines and it cuts right through Kiyoomi’s brain, throwing off his balance.

“If you don’t shut up, I’m kicking you out.” Kiyoomi leans against the counter and closes his eyes, dizzy. “You’re making my headache worse.”

Atsumu’s fingers slip into his hair from behind, same as before, same as they do when they lie side by side. They skirt the edges of that spot, still sensitive and sore. 

“Ya really gave yerself a good ol’ bump, huh?” he murmurs. “Poor, Omi-kun.”

Kiyoomi should hate those words. He should really hate how small they make him, how soft. But they’re free of pity and filled to the brim with pure affection, same as Atsumu’s gentle fingers.

They slide down to the nape of his neck, sinking into pressure points behind his ears. The noise they pull from Kiyoomi is far too close to a moan, but he doesn’t care. He can’t hear it. All he can hear is his own pulse pounding with the rhythm of those hands, beating in sync with them beneath his flesh.

Atsumu’s shallow breathing ghosts his ear, chest pressed warm against his back, and Kiyoomi can’t hold on to his want. It leaves him through his mouth, leaping off his lips louder than the last.

“Sure ya don’t wanna be little spoon?” Atsumu offers in turn, digging deeper.

Kiyoomi tries to say no. He really does. But all he can do is hold tight to that counter and utter a single word.

“Bed.”

——

Kiyoomi never thought he would be little spoon. Not in this friendship, not in any relationship, never ever in his entire life. He’s always been the prickly one, difficult to deal with, willful and independent to the point of pushing everyone else away. But wrapped in Atsumu’s arms, clung to and kept by all ten of those fingers, Kiyoomi melts and shrinks and softens. He does all these things which should be both terrible and demeaning. All these things he should hate. 

Kiyoomi never thought he would like being little spoon. And now he craves it like nothing else.

This is more than a benefit — this is a necessity. Same as breathing or sleeping. Lucky for Kiyoomi, all three go hand in hand in the dark of his bedroom, buried in the soft of his sheets.

Atsumu’s mindless humming vibrates through him, fills his head and lulls him placid. Kiyoomi never asks why he does it. They both know it’s the opposite of a distraction; a focus point to keep them from forgetting the extent of their benefits, a gentle reminder to keep hips still and hands subdued.

Kiyoomi is nearly asleep when it stops.

“I keep thinkin’ ‘bout what Bokkun said.” Atsumu’s words skim his neck.

“Huh?” Kiyoomi tries to blink himself awake with no luck.

“Why don’t we date?” Atsumu asks in earnest.

Kiyoomi’s certainly not conscious enough for this. “I like being friends with you,” he grumbles.

“We would still be friends” —Atsumu’s thumb brushes back and forth over his stomach through the thin fabric of his shirt, skirting the line they’ve drawn— “that wouldn’t change.”

“I like doing this,” Kiyoomi mumbles, far too focused on the feeling.

“This wouldn’t change either,” Atsumu argues, thumb halting.

“Then what?” Kiyoomi blinks into the black. “What do you want that we don’t already have?”

Without warning, Atsumu’s nose presses into his neck at the back of his ear. “A lot.”

Kiyoomi stiffens, wide awake. “It’s a bad idea.”

“Why?” Atsumu’s nose is ice cold.

“We’ll break up” —Kiyoomi pulls away— “and then we won’t want to be on the same team anymore.”

This is his worst nightmare in words, the ending to every stupidly happy daydream his mind could possibly conjure up. Kiyoomi is the childish one now. He doesn’t want to play with anyone else; he doesn’t want anyone’s sets but Atsumu’s. None other could feel as good, could satisfy him the same. 

Kiyoomi has to go out satisfied, and Atsumu is a habit he’s not ready to quit.

The same Atsumu who’s given in to quiet.

“You know it’s true,” Kiyoomi adds. He hates how disappointed his own words leave him.

“Then let’s not break up.” Atsumu shakes off his moment of near defeat with stunning ease. “Ever.”

Kiyoomi huffs half-heartedly at his naive hope. “It’s not that easy.”

“Yea, it is.” Atsumu is back at his neck, teeth grazing the shell of his ear with total disregard.

‘What line?’ Atsumu’s hands taunt as they splay across Kiyoomi’s chest and stomach, his hips tempt as they crash into Kiyoomi in one long rolling wave. Every touch is triggering sirens in his head, building into shrill sounds he wants to disregard. It’s not that easy.

“You’re not going to convince me like that.” Kiyoomi tries to wriggle away.

“What if” —Atsumu’s fingertips grow pointed— “I tickle ya!”

“No!” Kiyoomi cries out. 

Of course, that doesn’t stop Atsumu. In seconds he has Kiyoomi squirming, rolling, both desperate and dreading escape from those strong arms. Their fight continues until they end up on their sides, face to face as they gasp into the black.

“Convinced?” Atsumu asks with the first breath he catches.

“No.” Kiyoomi forces himself to say it. “Absolutely not—”

Atsumu cuts him off with lips pressed lightly to his cheek, delicate enough to seem unintentional. A mistake. But nothing with Atsumu is an accident, and Kiyoomi jolts with enough energy to shatter the moment. 

“Didn’t we agree on no kissing?” he demands, tense.

“Technically ya didn’t specify what type.” Atsumu’s self-satisfied smirk is audible. “And it wasn’t really a kiss anyway, more like my lips brushed yer cheek — a total accident.”

“You’re a total accident.” Kiyoomi flexes his legs tentatively, finding them tangled.

“Says the one with the knot on his head.” Atsumu ties them tighter. “Is yer headache any better?” 

“It was until you started tickling me.” Kiyoomi glares into the dark at that voice.

“Ya don’t like my tickles, ya don’t like my kisses. What benefits do I even got to offer ya?”

“I thought it wasn’t a kiss.” Kiyoomi scrunches his face tight for his blind audience.

“What do ya even like ‘bout me?” Atsumu presses, ignoring him.

He’s serious now — Kiyoomi knows that tone. It’s the one he gets when he analyzes his performance, picks it apart to tear himself to pieces shred by shred. Perfectionists spiral into pessimism far too easily.

“I don’t like being tickled.” Kiyoomi searches for the right words. “But I never said I didn’t like your kisses.”

“Yer body did.” Atsumu’s grip on him loosens. “Ya got all stiff on me.”

“Wait!” he yelps at those slipping fingers. 

Kiyoomi doesn’t want him to let go; he can’t let Atsumu go. Not until he’s satisfied — maybe not even then.

“Can we try it again?” he blurts out.

“Huh?” They dig back in.

“Can I kiss you?” Kiyoomi is grateful the dark hides the heat of his face, grants him courage with its cover.

Atsumu breathes out a laugh of relief. “I thought you’d never ask, Omi-kun.”

Asking was the easy part.

“Yes,” Atsumu states explicitly, expectantly. “Please.”

Neither of them move.

“Do ya need a little help?” Atsumu’s voice drops to a whisper and his hand snakes up Kiyoomi centimeter by centimeter. His chest, his shoulder, his neck: tingling all the same under Atsumu’s touch. But he doesn’t stop.

Kiyoomi grabs his hand right as those fingers reach for his jaw. 

“Don’t touch my face,” he chokes out, “you know that.”

Atsumu jerks in surprise. “I’m sorry.”

Unintentional.

“I didn’t mean to hurt ya—”

A mistake.

“Stop.” Kiyoomi grits his teeth.

Atsumu does stop this time. He stops talking, but his pinky finger wraps around Kiyoomi’s, tying them together with pure affection.

It was an accident. It wasn’t meant to hurt him. 

With that realization, Kiyoomi’s shoulders fall. “I don’t like people’s hands on my—”

“Ya don’t have to justify yerself.” Atsumu isn’t giving up on him. “I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“Okay.” Kiyoomi swallows, ready. “Can I still kiss you?”

Atsumu hums and Kiyoomi follows it to him in the dark, finds his skin soft yet rough with a dusting of stubble from the long day. And when the humming stops, Kiyoomi trails Atsumu’s jaw in its place all the way to his lips. He discovers them plush as he presses into them, slick with spit as their tongues try for a taste. They adjust to each other, awkward and addicting all the same, this new habit building with each passing second.

Kiyoomi doesn’t want to stop. He wants to stay satisfied like this forever.

But he has to breathe.

“Good god” —Kiyoomi sucks in air like nothing else— “I do like your kisses.”

Atsumu laughs, happy, breathless. “More than bein’ little spoon?”

Kiyoomi hums.

“Can this be another benefit, then?” Atsumu pleads. “I don’t wanna stop.”

Slowly, Kiyoomi brings their hands, pinkies attached, to the very edge of his jaw. It’s still not that easy, but there, under his control, he allows Atsumu’s gentle fingers to find his face, to discover his lips curved into a smile. 

“No more benefits,” he declares to them.

——

The locker room is quiet for once. Peaceful. Even Atsumu is silent, swiping through his phone on the bench beside Kiyoomi.

“That one.” Kiyoomi stops him, pinky squeezing tight to Atsumu’s. “My mom would like that one.”

Atsumu adds the shirt to his cart with a smile. Then adds another. “Let’s get matchin’ ones, Omi-kun.”

“Why? It’s not our engagement.” Kiyoomi forces a grimace at how easy the words ‘our engagement’ leap off his lips.

“Gotta make it clear to everyone we’re more than friends.” Atsumu winks. “More than best friends, even.”

“As long as you don’t tell them we’re friends with benefits, fine.” Kiyoomi quits far too easily, far too satisfied.

Of course, Meian picks that exact moment to turn the corner. He stops short at the sight of them sitting hip to hip, pinkies intertwined in Kiyoomi’s lap.

“Friends with benefits?” He raises his eyebrows incredibly high, higher than should be possible.

“No.” Atsumu laughs, likely at his face.

“Dating,” Kiyoomi fills in the blank between his eyes and his brows.

This time, Meian doesn’t turn around and leave. He smiles, the same as Kiyoomi and Atsumu, and opens up his locker. 

“Good to hear.”


End file.
